


Mug Shots & Scrapbooks

by ravensandwritings



Series: Arkham Riddler: Going Citizen [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman: Arkham (Video Games)
Genre: (or attempts at it), Canon-Typical Ableism, Canon-Typical Violence, Drama Queen Theater Kid, Frank Discussion of Past Trauma, Mind Control, Multi, OCD, PTSD, Prescription Drug Use, Realistic mental illness, Recovery, References to BDSM, References to past sexual activity, nonconsensual mind control
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-29
Updated: 2018-02-28
Packaged: 2018-11-20 18:30:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11340966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravensandwritings/pseuds/ravensandwritings
Summary: Side stories for Sins of the Father - where all the other little bits go that don't quite fit into the main storyline. Edward Nygma's adventures in reform, fatherhood, and backsliding into crime now and again...





	1. From The Belly of the Beast

**Author's Note:**

> Bits and Bobs that happen around, during and before The Going Citizens series, so far consisting of Sins of the Father. Side stories that don't quite fit into the great scheme of things, but still ought to to be told. Fragments of a bigger picture, whether it's a life of crime or the slow growth of a happy family...

By the time I got to the third pat down at the fourth gate into this hellhole, I was ready to ask the orderly if he wanted to buy me dinner or skip to screwing in a closet.  There’s a difference between a pat down and having my genitals juggled, but this nimrod couldn’t tell one from the other.

Once I’d been more than thoroughly searched for weapons, narcotics and the like, they passed over my equally vetted things that I was going to share with the inmate I was here to see. I was given the same list of rules they recited every other time I visited: I could not leave anything here. All items had to stay with me. They could not enter the inmate’s possession at any time. If I so much as left one on the floor between us, we would be forcibly separated and the entire place strip searched. That included us. Who knew _The Journal of Experimental Social Psychology_ could be so dangerous?

Then again, I was visiting the infamous Dr. Jonathan Crane while he lingered in a medium security psyche ward, hovering at the edge of death like the stubborn mule of a man that he was. Batman’s unprecedented dose of fear toxin, back on the night of the Black Halloween four years ago, had left Jon wracked with tremors, heart overworked and body completely out of balance. I visited never knowing if he was going to be a rational person or a quivering, skeletal chinchilla, waiting for someone to clap their hands and drive him into a heart attack.

They opened the last gate and escorted me to a door I recognized. I went beyond it alone. It was not an Arkham cell, all concrete walls and bullet proof glass. Instead it had sterile pale green and white walls, lovely molding – this was not the house that Arkham built, though the bars on the window were something I was accustomed to seeing. Visits were never easy, but it was all that we had.

Sitting in the stream of light coming in from the window was Jon; he was propped up in his wheelchair, looking out across the grounds to the less dangerous prisoners being lead through calisthenics in the quad below.

“Jon?” I circled around him carefully, tapping my feet before taking another step. I wanted him to be aware I was here.

“Edward. It’s been some time.” He turned his head just slightly, seeking me out through one jaundiced eye. “I was just enjoying my light therapy. Do sit down.”

“Of course.” The other chair by the window was bolted to the floor. It had no padding and was uncomfortable. No one was supposed to be at ease here.  Relaxing with certain patients could be fatal.

Jon looked at me from his seat, a mess of a man left marked by the vicious brutality of the life he’d made for himself. Maimed by Killer Croc all those years ago, he had eventually lost one leg entirely and huge chunks of flesh from his face due to lack of medical care and disdain for his own wretched flesh. At the height of his insanity, he’d sewn burlap into his skin and let himself exist solely as The Scarecrow.  Around the same time, I was playing at being a race track designer who couldn’t remember the basics of personal hygiene. Not high points for either of us.

“What did you bring today?” He leaned forward in his chair. “Updates? How’s the boy?”

“Nick’s doing well,” I told him as I shuffled my collection of papers and journals to bring up the pictures I brought. Nick was getting so big – he’d be four soon, and the baby fat was starting to melt off. I showed them the glossies, holding them close so he could see. He never lifted a hand for them.

“Are you stable yet? Home, a new doctor?” his ragged lips barely hid his teeth as he tried to smirk. “Or do you still need my expertise?”

“I’ve stabilized,” I said, voice dipping. “Medication’s working. No more… no more outbursts.”

“Nick is doing better?” His voice was a rasp, scales over sand. “No more fear or shyness? You’re practicing better coping methods? Breathing, visualization?”

“Yes, of course!” Bristling like a cornered cat was foolish, and I felt stupid when the emotional reaction took hold before I rounded back on the logical. I came here _specifically for these questions_. I might’ve brought pictures and journals, and I would certainly read him the latter for the edification of both of us, but…

This was it. This was my prescribing physician. It wasn’t at all legal and he had someone doing things for him on the outside, but it kept me in pills and kept me from catching myself screaming at a toddler when he couldn’t do something I thought was childishly simple, like basic potty training. I just... I couldn't. 

I just _couldn’t_ become my dad. I’d swallow a bullet first.

“Temper, Edward,” he said, and the scales were gone from his voice and what took their place was syrupy Georgia peaches. He drawled now, tone shifting to ease my nerves. “I ask for concern. I can’t help you if you go immediately on the defensive. You have accepted you are ruled by _fear_ , Edward. Now, you must move through and past it. Leash your monsters, make them _work for you._ ”

A rousing pep talk from someone who had sown a gunny sack to his face. But he was the _foremost_ expert on anxiety and panic disorders. I brought him journals every quarter so he could stay abreast of every notation, every peer reviewed article, every bit of experimental therapy or drug treatment.

It was a trade: I was his last patient and student, and he gave me suggestions on treatment. The cost was going to be high, when the debt came due. I owed him a favor. Rogue’s barter at its best – the inestimable value of one thing held against the unquantified cost of what you might pay out in the future. Blood, money, sanity were all parts of the trade.

I knew what he wanted. I just didn’t know when, or what I’d do when it was time. Planning for the impossibilities of it all when I’d tried to give all that up, well… Sometimes that life is hard to escape. But for what I was getting, the risk was worth it. Every three months I would come to his hospital, get groped by some asshole in a white jumpsuit, and see my doctor.

“I know. I’m doing better.” That was true. I was doing better. Even the courts could recognize that. “Got it on a leash. Now I remember to do the right things, right reasons.”

“For Nick.” His voice was still filled with rich, warm, honeyed tones. Gentle, affectionate... proud. Goddamn, I hated that I enjoyed that.

“For Nick,” I agreed. He was playing me like a harp, but it was a performance I asked for.

“Good. When you know the names of your demons, you can dispel them. Naming a thing gives it power, yes, but when you name it, you _own_ it. Now,” he flicked one emaciated hand, “the medication is working. Your outbursts are lessening. You’re seeing a genuine therapist now, yes?”

“T…that’s, ah that’s been more difficult,” I admitted softly. “Not a lot of people want to take me on. I… Between Harley, and the past, it’s… I can’t get past a first appointment.”

“Don’t grow disheartened,” Jon said, hand still hovering in the air. “You are making progress. Keep trying. Eventually one of them, someone who isn’t a dim cretin, will see your sincerity.”

“It’s the last thing I have to get.” I looked down at my son, captured in a photo taken by unseen strangers. “If I can’t, no custody. Supervised visits at best, all parental rights severed at worst.”

“I know. It’s your last serpent to slay. Paralipophobia is a terrible thing when you become a new parent. To have it gain mastery because no one will give you the weapons to slay it…” Jon’s fingers rapped on the arm of his chair, sharp and repetitive. He lingered in thought for a moment, fixing his reptilian gaze on the window. He did not look at me when he spoke again. “I have one more thing you can try. A person.”

“What? For therapy?”

“Yes.” His mangled lips gaped a little, teeth flashing in what was supposed to be a smile but didn’t resemble anything of the sort.

“ _Who?_ ” If Jon had been holding out on me to make me jump through hoops I was going to make him _eat_ these journals.

“Melody Howell . You may know her better as _Scream Queen_.”

Scream Queen had been one of Gotham’s C-listers – her shtick was already taken by a better pro, she didn’t get much done, and she faded out to obscurity rather than get caught and locked up. She’d barely been a blip on the radar. That Jon knew he didn’t surprise me. That he recommended her? Color me shocked.

“What the hell does Scream Queen have to do with anything?”

“She changed vocations after I made some very persuasive arguments to help her along. We remained… correspondents after the fact.” There was something in the way he let that word out that said _something_ was certainly being delivered from one to the other, but it was _not_ the daily post. “Her focus in the dual locus stimuli of both fear and arousal as mirror emotional states, using one to treat the travails of the other yielded fascinating results.”

“You want to set me up with your…” _Ex-lover?_ “former colleague?”

“Yes. She’s gone completely straight since her brief stint among the rogues, and I think you’ll find her amicable to your situation.” He gave a breathy chuckle. “Especially if you tell her that I directed you to her.” 

“Why not send me to her in the first place?” If he had this ace up his sleeve for the last two goddamn years, why was this _enlightening_ and _vital_ information only coming my way now?

“I thought it best not to pit one of my boon companions against the other,” his eyes narrowed a fraction. “…and, in my pettiness, I had not forgiven your indiscretion with my _other_ pupil.”

The only other person who Jon had liked better than me among the rogues was Harley. He adored her in the way a doting father did, in turns both devoted and terrifying in his intensity. Jon delivered his love with a side of pulse pounding terror and though Harley had been fond of him, she was singularly attached to one man: Joker. Jon couldn’t compete, and when he found out that she’d rebounded briefly to me, he was irate. Accusations flew – I’m not sure that it was because I’d had sex with Harley, or that I’d connected to literally anyone other than him that made him so wroth, or that Harley had turned to someone else for comfort of any sort -- but he'd been incredibly angry with me when he found out. Though very few of us were exactly monogamous, Jon and I were a rarity. I mean, we often were heinous to one another as rogues were, but we also knew we could count on each other in our own ways. Also, he played chess like a pro and I wasn’t about to pass that up. 

Still, you have sex the _one time_ while completely incapacitated on a mix of alcohol and residual fear toxin, and no one lets you move past it. “And if I promise to not be _indiscreet_ with your protégé?”

“I’m not worried about that,” Jon waved a hand, dismissing any idea that I could manage to couple with his student. I wasn’t sure I should be insulted or relieved. “I am more concerned that she will be… wounded. Or simply regretful. We have not…”

Jon went quiet for a moment, and I watched him. His rent face was hard to read – normally I could pick up on some tells or another, micro-twitches and muscle spasms. But with his ruined flesh, it was watching snakes writhe together. You couldn't find the beginning of an emotion or where a tell lead to.

“We parted poorly,” he finally said. “A difference of opinion. But I doubt she’ll turn you away. She is your last, best hope, Edward.”

I wanted to ask for more – always asking, that Edward Nygma. Edward _Nashton_ , I mean. Still curious to a fault. But I kept my quizzical concerns to myself.

“Alright, Scream Queen it is.”

Jon reached out, hand again returning to hovering in the air before he finally closed the distance. I wasn’t allowed to give him anything, but we could touch. They watched us for any false moves, but his hand on my hair wouldn’t be one of them.

“I should think it apropos. The marriage of my legacy of fear, one to the other.” His creaking fingers stroked my hair, before his hand slid down the back of my neck. He leaned forward, and I braved that terrible visage, let him draw close to me. I could smell the rot of his teeth, hot fetid breath against my cheek.

“I thought I was supposed to be _discreet_ ,” I said.

“You know that isn’t what I meant at all.” All that Southern sweetness coming from that rotted mouth gave me pause. “My two successes – one carrying on my work, the other the product of all its study: a man traversing fear and understanding its power seeking the woman who can give him his final passage to the normal world again. The tail end of the hero’s journey, Edward. You traversed the underworld, atonement has been sought, and now you need the blessing of the goddess to return to the normal world.”

“I know my Campbell, Jon.”

“I think that you need to be reminded.” he said, stroking my hair again, before he suddenly gripped it at the back of my neck, made me look him in the eyes. My pulse spiked, suddenly hammering in my throat as he drew in a fraction closer, holding me transfixed. “You were the only one to get out alive, Edward. The only one of us not consumed in the belly of the Bat. You _beat_ him.”

I was wracked with a hard tremor, fear twisting my guts.   He soothed me with a hand against my cheek, his grip easing on my hair. I don’t know what it was that terrified me – maybe that this is what victory could look like: praise from a madman who'd never feet grass under the foot he had left, ever again. But then I looked down at the pictures of my son, with my high cheekbones showing through the babyfat and Harley’s wide open eyes. I swept them up and put them back in my pocket.

If I had to be a hero, I knew what my talisman was.

Jon’s hand retreated, and he slouched back in his chair. He stared at me for a moment, before he gestured to the journals in my lap.

 “So what did you bring us to read?”


	2. Waltz Right In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edward's final court date regarding the custody of his son is in two weeks. So of course some henchmen deeply concerned about their boss's tangle with a big bad of Gotham would walk into his life with a request he can't deny.

Never say ‘I wouldn’t do that if you had a gun to my head’. Inevitably, somebody tests your resolve on that statement. My personal lack of intestinal fortitude while being held at gun point was why I was now sitting across from one Ginger Idiot, locally known as the Music Meister. He was six-foot-four, with the most amazing dancer’s figure and shoulders Atlas would have paid to see shrug wrapped up in a purple bespoke zoot suit.  Freckles from forehead to neck, and probably anywhere else you could care to look. Gap-toothed, which probably made him adorable to the right set. Drooling, which was completely unattractive in everyone who isn’t a mastiff, and not really all that great even then.

The drooling is why I’d been brought at gun point to the aging theater hide out that the lowlife thugs in question were in. The Music Meister was normally a powerfully built man full of charisma and appeal on the stage. Instead he was a vegetable with all the presence of a turnip. The hat card – belonging to one Jervis Tetch, globally known as the Mad Hatter and expert on neurotransmitters and their uses in crime – had burned all the way through his once amazing feathered hat and wired itself into his skull.

That’s where I came in. Ex-Riddler, still brilliant programmer. If anyone could hack the code on a Hat Card, it was me. Which is why I was dragged out of bed, forced into a car at gunpoint and told I was going to do certain things to fix their boss, or _else_.

I had a custody hearing in two weeks. The final hearing. The last huzzah where I dotted all my I’s and crossed all the T’s and became the legal guardian of my own son, Alan Nikola Nashton. All the paperwork was in, all the sane declarations had been made. I’d held a shitty job for the last two years, was medicated and had a therapist. All the professionals had signed off on it, and it just needed to be formalized in court. Nick was coming home, dammit. I needed to be alive for that.

From what the Chorus Line had told me, they’d sprung Meister in the middle of Jervis’s nefarious plan to pied piper some kids into Wonderland, or whatever he was doing now as he got more and more deluded. Pretty clever trick, I’ve got to say – hijack someone who electronically enhances his audio-visually transmitted psychic ability and expand your card commands using him as an amplifier, then amplify him _again_ with his own electronic equipment he designed for that express purpose, making him a city-wide menace in an eye blink rather than the localized flash mob annoyance he was most of the time. 

Meister had to be seen or heard to transmit his psychic imprint. He could sign language you a song and you’d be swaying with him in no time, but it was far simpler to combine dance and audible music to get you marching in step to the tune he set. The most factors he could bring to bear, the more powerful the control. Just dance or just voice? Not so potent. Body moving in step with the music he made? People threw a lot more than underwear at him and he loved every minute of it. He was making time as a fairly well off criminal since the Bat had gone sideways into the dark under Wayne Manor, but he didn’t hurt or kill people so that made him an annoyance to the cops rather than a priority target. 

I could have used someone like Music Meister back in the day. Arrogant, brilliant in his own right, but not nearly so smart as he thinks he is. More interested in art and debauchery then he is in actual crime as an enterprise, though he enjoyed people surrendering up their valuables with sobs of _I’m your biggest fan!_ Sadly, his rising start was negated with the fall of Wayne Manor and the transmutation of Batman from flesh-and-blood vigilante to something out of the Scarecrow’s most potent fear toxin. Thankfully, after that fall I was finding out Harley was giving birth in Belle Reve, and I was the proud if bewildered papa of a baby boy. I was way too busy to bother with rogue business after that. Meister filled the gap of ‘arrogant noisy asshole of Gotham’ that I left vacant.

With custody hearings as my driving force I sat for hours, working on decrypting the outgoing ping signal and learning how to talk back to the card. Thankfully, Jervis hadn’t really changed them much over time and I was passingly familiar with the technology. It was not frying his brain that was the hard part. Jervis’ tech wasn’t that stable in either direction – he was getting less and less coherent as the years went by, and his victims… well, a lot more of them were ending up in bedlam than back at home with their families. The Chorus Line knew that. Hence, the gun to my temple at 12:00am.

I cracked the code about 4:30am – and the Meister visibly wobbled in his chair, jerking like a puppet that had suddenly had his stringed plucked at.

“Is that _supposed_ to happen?” asked the biggest of the three Chorus Line present. He had a deep voice that rumbled all the way down to your shoes and the best music note fade you’ll ever see on a man.

“It means I’m getting somewhere. Card’s now listening. I just need to figure out how to get it to tell me what commands I need to get it to let go of your boss,” I told them, bent over my laptop. “Could you get me some coffee? I’m running on fumes here.”

“We don’t _work_ for you.”

“I don’t work for free, yet here I am.”

My chair’s leg got kicked- it didn’t knock me over, but getting jarred was annoying.

“I knew you were mouthy, but I didn’t know you were stupid.”

“I didn’t know Meister hired morons – since, you know, I could turn him into _my_ slave at any given time and use him against you,” I pointed out. “Not like you have any way of knowing what the code I’m working on is, right?”

The three Chorus Liners looked at each other, suddenly uncertain. They were loyal not because of money or because they really enjoyed well staged choreography in banks, but because Meister's music was not just catchy, it was _addictive._ The endorphin rush and sheer pleasure you got out of obedience was great while it lasted, but crashed hard afterwards. For people with certain brain chemistry – like major clinical depression – the Meister was better than any pill, except when he wasn't around to give you a fix. He could hum you out of a panic attack or ease chronic pain. So many uses for such a power, and he wasted it on petty theft and musical theater writ large on Gotham's streets.

Another world, a different time, I might've been on the hook if he'd gotten to me before I was set in my ways. Can't really imagine myself being a dancer, though.

While the Chorus Line worried about their dealer being dead eyed and drooling, I continued to work. Jervis was brilliant with how the brain worked, but thankfully his programming skills ended there. He wasn't a security expert, and he wasn't concerned about hijacking signals. His Wonderland madness, combined with use of his cards to allow himself his own hallucinatory world had begun to degrade his own intelligence and mind. I'm not surprised he wanted to use Meister to boost what he'd begun to struggle with.

I found my command list – basic stuff, nothing for card relay. That was fine, because no matter what I told the Chorus Line I had no desire to have Music Meister on the hook to me. Slowly I disengaged each control, watching as each control command was canceled that Meister jumped and twitched. His eyes began to move of their own volition, mouth moving wetly with saliva still on his face.

As each card command to shut down was executed, one more wire slid out of the nerves it was using to manipulate his brain. He was going to hurt like hell – migraines weren't an uncommon long term side effect of getting Hatted, but in the immediate, every nerve on the side of his face was going to be raw.

I reached out and caught it as it fell, the last command to shut down issued. He swayed in his seat, and I got a hand to steady him, but then the Chorus line was moving and pushing as Meister came around.

That's when his panic hit. He'd been out of control, and a mind-manipulator like Meister's first instinct in danger was to reach for it. He howled a single anguished note--

\--- and I sat in my seat. It was good here. It felt good here, comfortable and warm. I could stay here forever. My friends sat down around me, all of them on the floor, but that was okay. We were all friends here. Meister looked at me, and he seemed confused, but he was holding that _amazing note..._

Then there was silence, and I slumped in my seat. The endorphin rush was still under my skin – I hadn't felt a body high like that since college and some ill thought out mary jane edibles experiments. Even with the command to sit still now ended, I didn't really feel like leaving even though my brain was pointing out that I'd just had my will usurped.

He touched the side of his head as I started to regain the urge to move my limbs and shifted in my seat. The Chorus Line were still sitting on the floor – the rush was probably more potent for his addict henchmen. 

As I reached for the table to try and get myself to my feet, he finally really _looked_ at me. His pupils were pinprick, tiny black dots in eyes as green as mine but far more bloodshot. Then he spoke – _sang._

 _"I know you, Riddler, through and through."_ He touched my face, fingers tracing along my jaw. God, how long had it been since anybody touched me? He was so kind, to be so gentle. _"Tell me true, just what did you do?"_

"I disconnected the Mad Hatter's card from your brain," I told him. It didn't matter that he knew. It was his right. Who'd hold back that sort of information? It was so important that he understand that I helped him.

Meister searched my face, humming gently. God, I couldn't get enough of that music – he was just so _amazing._ Why was he wasting his time here in this shitty theater? He deserved so much better.

" _Rise, Riddler, rise!"_ I was on my feet as he asked. He extended his hand to me. " _Do be a dear and give me a hand here."_

Getting him upright around the Chorus Line was imperative. He waved one regal hand and they scurried away, crawling away on the floor to get out of our way. He reached out and put one hand on my shoulder.

" _I'm so tired, you brilliant thing. Why don't you take the lead while I sing?"_

There was no music, but I settled in to leading Meister to the stage as he asked, stepping in waltz. It was where he belonged. The Chorus line was scrambling to their places, doing things behind the scenes. They were trained so well! You couldn't help but admire such precision work, excellent understanding of their star's wishes.

Meister kept his eyes on mine the entire time, keeping me in a spotlight of my very own. His nose was bleeding, but he seemed unconcerned – I shouldn't worry if he didn't.

When were center stage, lights went on, flawlessly capturing us. I was so graced to be here with him.

" _If you like, could you fetch my mic?"_ I left him as he withdrew his arms, and went to get the mic stand and put it before him. God, was he really going to sing. He tapped the mic, hearing the thump through the stage's speakers. He looked exultant, finally like himself again, even with the blood down his face. Then he fixed his gaze on me.

 _"Former Arkham denizen, now gone citizen? Riddler no more? I scorn your reform. Now get on your knees, if you please."_ I dropped without question, and it didn't even hurt that much on the hardwood. He stroked his fingers through my hair, gesture kind but his words cruel. " _Your motives couldn't be plainer – what did you think you'd gain here?"_

"Nothing! I didn't want to come. The Chorus Line forced me! But I'm sorry, I didn't understand--" I should be so ashamed, thinking of my _son_ when the Meister was so much danger! How could I think of my petty wants above his genius?  

My son...

My son?

Meister's eyes flashed with brief anger, and he took up the mic, the other hand on my head as he swayed, hips utterly hypnotic. But I had to keep my eyes on his face, try to do whatever pleased him. He needed the truth from me, it was the least I could give him.

"Please, that's exactly what happened!" I insisted. God, don't be angry at me for the truth! "I saved you!" 

" _Shh, shh, Riddler once and now returned."_ He soothed my fear, stroking my hair. I could be calm now, calm and quiet. Did he finally believe me? _"My anger hasn't been earned. You've served your purpose in this dance. But nothing comes for free. You can't pass up this chance! What reward would make a happy memory?"_

"I want to go home," I told him. It was all I wanted, and he could give it to me easily. It would cost him nothing and yet make me so happy! A simple gift, and I hadn't really earned more than that. "I'm so close to getting my son back. I have to be good, Meister, or they won't let me see him!"

He stopped dead and stared at me. Was that the wrong answer? Had I angered him? I started to tremble. Please, don't be angry! I'd have to think of something better, something that he could feel is _right_. My heart was pounding now, and my joy was being swallowed up by horror. Oh, God, I'd made him mad.

" _Stop!"_ I was still. One word, and I felt nothing but peace. He was so powerful, and I was so blessed. _"This is no place for panic, this is no stage for fear. That's not my tactic, especially not here."_

He gestured to the stage around us, bright lights already making my skin dampen with sweat. What did they say about taking the heat?

" _Passion_ , _joy, art! These are the things we create. You've you played your part to the letter, now let me make something better."_  He beamed at me, apparently pleased. Good. Maybe I hadn't asked for too much. " _Stay calm and stay quiet, you'll come to no harm. You have the Meister's word that he'll disarm._ "

He set the mic aside, and gave a wobbly dance step back. One of the Chorus Line was already rushing out with a chair, which he dropped back into while I sat at his knees, just waiting for him to tell me to do something, anything at all. But there was no music, and I began to realize that my knees hurt.

"I'm very sorry, my people have been incredibly rude. Gun point! We don't get things at gun point," he sighed, before he touched his face. I watched him for a minute, still vibrating with a physical pleasure that was so intense it almost made me ache. It was like a plateau before climax, but there was no finish,  no release. Just every nerve singing in chorus  . “Who do they think they’re working for, _Penguin?_ ”

As the pleasure faded and my skin cooled, it was replaced with something new: _hate_. That prancing motherfucker had hijacked my brain, and he was talking about rude henchmen? I could _murder_ him with my bare hands. My fingers curled into fists where I pressed them into my legs. I wanted to _hit_ that smug face so badly. 

He lifted one bloody hand, and I stopped. Not controlled, but—I knew he could render me an impotent groveling slave with a word. But my heart remained sluggish. No panic, and the rage was so dull. After affects of the control, maybe?

"The post-performance crash usually doesn't come that quickly." Meister said as he looked down on me like a king does his subjects.  That freckled little shit wasn’t nearly so impressive without psychic domination flooding my mind. He was just some pretentious theater kid with delusions of grandeur. I think I preferred him drooling, though. "Is that because you're so strong willed, or because the card made me weak? I mean, my head is _killing me_."

"Your head is the least of your problems," I growled.

"Now, now. You told me your heart's desire – a normal life with your son. You won't endanger that for petty revenge over a waltz and some interrogation." Meister waved another hand, and the Chorus Line ran out with water bottles and towels. He dabbed at his nose, then at the side of his head. "Guess I'll be getting that undercut now. Least it's still in style again. I can make it work, I think. Will there be scars from the card?”

"You have just brainjacked one of the trinity of terror, and you're worried about your hair?" There were three big names in Gotham, and I was one of them. Joker had been top dog, and I trailed not too far behind. Scarecrow came in at third. We were the one who were most capable of terror on a large scale, our schemes created the most damage. Gotham had every reason to be afraid of us, and this guy… he was just oblivious.

"Joker's dead, you're retired, and Scarecrow is utterly defeated. There's nothing to fear from the so called 'trinity'. Especially not if you want to see your son." I hated that he had me, that he dismissed any threat I could be so casually. But—that's what I wanted, wasn't it? To see my son and have a life far away from all the horrors of Gotham.

"Now, I need that brilliant mind clear for the questions I'm going to ask – please be truthful." Meister dropped his bloody towel to the side, leaning forward and resting his weight on one powerful leg. "What did Jervis Tetch do to me?"

"He hijacked your power with a Hat Card." Explaining this was simple - I didn't care what he knew about what was done to him. The important part was I fixed it, and I wanted to get home so I could sleep a couple of hours before going to work.

"Do you have any idea why? And to what purpose?"

"If I were to guess: it would be simpler to control one person, then make them control hundreds or thousands then try to card a lot of people. As for what you did, you better ask the Chorus Line. I got woke up in the middle of the night and brought to you, so didn't really have a chance to hit the news feeds."

There was silence from the backstage. Meister's frown deepened, and he scanned the wings of the theater. Nothing.

"Then perhaps it's best you don't know," he said quietly. "Do you know if this will have permanent side effects? Will I end up like the Hatter, with his brain halfway to la la land?"

"Probably not. You've only been Carded once. Side effects usually include migraines, and bad dreams, which increase if you get carded multiple times, like his Wonderland recruits. Sometimes there’s brain bleeds – you’re going to want to get a doctor to check you out."

Meister relaxed a fraction. He just seemed so tired – I wondered how long he'd been forced awake and what he'd been doing. But he han't been wrong when he said the less I knew the better. I needed plausible deniability, just in case.  

"I apologize for this rough treatment. They must've been very desperate." Who wouldn't be when your fix was threatened? Was he really this ignorant of the affect he had on people?

He got up, and I followed suit. He just kept talking, like nothing important had transpired at all. "I'll make sure they know better. Your services will be rewarded, once I've had time to recover and lay low."

"I don't really need a reward. I just want to be left alone to raise my son." Why couldn't people ever believe me when I told them that this was what I wanted? Just let me have my little family and leave me in _peace._ I was done being the center of attention. Now, I just wanted quiet.

"No, Rogue's honor. You scratched my back, you're getting a scritch of some sort." Meister was insistent, and I doubted he was used to being gainsaid by anybody. Best to leave it alone. "I'll figure something suitable out."

"Can I just get a cab home?" 

"Of course, of course," he said. He turned at me and beamed, teeth pink with blood. He couldn’t break character, though – the stage was the stage, and he was a player on it. "One of the Chorus will see to you. Thank you, again. The alternative was a fate worse than death, as I'm sure you understand."

I did, but that didn't mean I wanted to stick around and commiserate. His interchangeable henchmen did as he bid: a cab was fetched as a safe place far from the theater, I was put in it, and I went home. I collapsed into bed, and then had to get up way too early to go to a construction site and work.

The next couple of weeks were a blur. I ran on autopilot, putting the events earlier in the month behind me. I just checked off days on my calendar in my apartment, and swept the good will for furniture I could fix up for Nick's room. No theme, I wasn't that kind of dad and I certainly didn't have that kind of money, but I wanted it to be nice. It had to be special, it had to be _home._

The court date arrived, and I was in my best dress: second hand everything, but by God I showed up a suit, if one in muted grays. No hat and no cane. I was just an appropriately respectful guy who wanted the court to not fuck him over one last time.

When the judge pronounced custodial shift and the gavel hit home I had to grip the table in front of me. Sure, the lawyer from CPS looked like she wanted to tickle my kidney with that expensive fountain pen of hers, but she came forward and passed over my four-year-old son. Almost five years of work, and he came into my arms with open curiosity.

"Hey, Nick. Guess what?"

"What?"

"You're coming home with _Dad_ now," I told him, holding him a little too tight for a moment, before I relaxed my arms. He beamed at me – we'd gotten increased visitation over the last year, getting him adjusted to me, so I wasn't a total stranger to him. He knew I was his dad, he knew – hopefully – that I loved him and wanted the best for him as much as his preschool brain could understand it.

He just gave me a chipper okay, and then started to wave bye-bye to the CPS agent and his foster family. Unlike the agent, they seemed... distraught. I understood that, though. They probably didn't trust me anymore than I trusted them to take care of Nick.

I was going to prove them so wrong. We were going to be fine. Sure, it was a shitty rent controlled apartment in Jersey, but it was my shitty apartment and he had his own room an I had a job and this was going to _work_ goddamn it. I'd thought about every angle, tried to account for every variable. I could do this. I _had_ to do this.

My court appointed lawyer gave me a pat on the back and honest congratulations. I'd won him over in time, and he was genuinely happy for us. There was a brief discussion of the first wellness check in three months, but I knew we'd be fine. Better than fine.

I left the courthouse with my son and enough cash for a cab back to my place. Nick filled my head with chatter about cartoons he liked and did we have a TV? He wanted to be sure we had a TV. (We had a TV. I had repaired it myself.)

We stopped short when I saw the man leaning against a lamp post outside the humble family court. He had bright red hair in an undercut, and but I could still make out scabby wounds on the side of his head. The profile, the body – all easily recognizable.

Music Meister had come to my custody hearing. Oh God, could people _not_ leave us alone?

He looked better than he had when was brought to him. Defintely had less spit on his face. He gave me a little nod, and for a brief moment I considered just walking right past him... but I know how arrogant criminals act when their pride gets pricked.

"Mister," I said, refusing to utter 'meister' on the steps of the family court.

"Ben, please," he said, voice like warm honey and twice as sweet. His smile was a lot more dazzling without the blood. The gap between his teeth was kind of cute, too. "Ben Flatt."

"Mr. Flatt, then." There was no way I was getting on a first name basis with the Music Meister. He just smiled at me, and let it be. "What can I do for you?"

"I was thinking about what I could do for you, actually. You're starting out a brave new life with the cards stacked against you, and you've got people depending on you to get it right." He smiled at my son, and my guts turned to water. Please, don't try to leverage me. I'll kill you before I let you get my son involved.

Nick, unaware of the danger, just waved. "You've got _red hair._ "

"I do," Ben – Meister  – said.

"Don't trouble the nice man, Nick." Don't talk to him, don't attract his interest. Just be safe. Please, be safe.

"He's no trouble. But really – I mean it, you're going into this with third hand furniture you've flipped and very little else."

"You've been nosing around places you shouldn't." I hated having my humble means rubbed in my face. I was trying to do my best, dammit.

Ben shrugged, and kept talking. Did he really not get how foolish this was? Or was he just this secure in his power?

"I want to repay you. A rogue's debt is a terrible thing hanging over one's head."

"I'm not a rogue anymore."

"But you were. Trinity of terror, remember?" He grinned at me now, throwing my words back in my face. I wanted to jam my boot in that gap-toothed smile. "And what artist doesn't acknowledge the shoulders of giants he stands upon, supporting his new work?"

I couldn't tell him I was a lunatic. I couldn't tell him he was an arrogant ponce that got people hurt. All I could do was try and maintain my composure. All I wanted to do was grab my son and run, and pop an Ativan when I was someplace safe.

"So what do you want to do?" Better just get him to the point. I didn't want him to drag this out with flourishes and theatrics.

"I want to make your life easier," Ben said with a spread of his hands. "I want you and your son to get a fresh start, a happy ending so long denied. And since you’re a law abiding citizen now, I want to give it from a source that isn't _me_."

That got my attention. My brow went up. He had me listening now, that was for certain.

"A programming opportunity. Nothing illicit, nothing dangerous. Completely above board. Some contract work, that's all. It just comes with a very generous advance." He smiled at me, like a priest granting indulgence to a sinner: here you go, you are forgiven and returned to your due station. You may now enter the kingdom of being able to reasonably support your child and not live on ramen. "You can do your honest work, where you're not wasted on a construction site of all things, and have a nest egg for your little bird."

"He's not a bird," I said first. No Robins here. This kid was _never_ going to be Robin, or even remotely in the crazy situations Batman put kids in. "Completely honest work? You didn't coerce him?"

"Oh no. I couldn't get to him. I just talked to a few of my wealthier friends, seeing what I could do for you without breaking the law. But this is on the up and up. He knows exactly who he'd be hiring. He's eager for your help, even. There's nobody better in keeping terrible technology from hurting people now, is there?" He passed a business card to me. It had a name, some phone numbers and a very distinct company logo.

He'd given me Lucius Fox's card.

"That's Wayne Enterprises on that card," I said once I could unglue my tongue from the roof of my mouth. "I can't take Wayne money."

"Technically it's Fox money now, they're just keeping the name out of respect."

"I can't take _Wayne money._ "

"Why? Because he hurt you? Because this company profited off all the ways to make you suffer?" He honestly looked confused. Why wouldn’t anyone want Wayne blood money? "I thought you'd like the justice of it – making them pay you back for everything he did to you. Isn't it sort of poetic?"

"Thank you, but no," I said, passing him back the card. He deflated just a bit, looking disappointed. This wasn't the song and dance he came prepared for. I bet I was supposed to be effusively grateful -- anyone else would have been. But I wasn't anyone.

"Can I offer you a piece of unsolicited advice?" I asked him.

His brows shot up, and he gestured one handed for me to follow along

"Get out of Gotham. You're a smart man, and that place will chew you up and spit you out. If you want to stay rogue, head on up to Central. You already obey the code, you don't kill anybody. Pied Piper quit the rogues way before I did, so they’ve got a slot open for a man of your... interests and ability. Bonus, Flash doesn't usually brutally beat anyone close to death if he catches them. If you don’t kill anybody. the criminal clans up there will welcome you in."

Ben seemed to think this over, and then gave a little nod of 'message received'. "I'll think it over. But my debt remains unexpunged, Edward.”

"That's fine. We're fine. We'll get by on our own."

"Alright," he said, but there was a _for now_ in that tone. He wasn’t going to leave this alone, I could tell. God, could this whirlwind of purple-coated drama just get out of my life now? "As you wish, Edward."

He gave a parting smile, and stepped away from the shadows of the awning, and walked away. I watched him go.

“What was that about?” I jumped a little. There was a heavy-set cop – black, older than me – just coming out of the court’s foyer. He eyed me for a moment, and I wondered if he knew who I was.

“Just a busker,” I told him. “Thanking me for my generosity. You give one of ‘em a buck and they think the world of you.” I hurried down the steps, hoping to avoid any more questions. It was time to get home, and leave men like the Music Meister far behind me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Fanbruary, inspired by [Music Meister art](https://hypnosistrash.tumblr.com/post/150477976201/i-saw-this-post-about-the-music-meister-implying) by HypnosisTrash (that post is safe but the blog is over all NSFW!) and [Waiting4Codot's](http://waiting4codot.tumblr.com/) version of the Music Meister. Little of column a, little of column be, so grateful for both.


	3. Whips and Chains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They're the two best thieves in town -- him with electronics, her with second story work. Of course they've worked together. But the past is fraught with other things that had in common...

I should have seen this coming. Eddie _never_ asks for help. He condescendingly offers you a place in his plan, suggests his _magnificent intellect_ has found something where a moron like you could at least be useful. But he never asks, let alone offers to show you exactly what he wants in detail. Still, he always pays well, and that's the part that mattered. I can stand him looking down his nose at me so long as he doesn't see what sort of a chump I'm playing him for. Lucky for me, he doesn't really care about money. For Eddie it's just a means to an end, instead of the end itself.

That's what got me. Moderately difficult job, fat paycheck. I don't mind working for hire when I know a guy is good for the money, and Eddie is always good. Didn't matter if it was thieving or domming, you can get almost anything for the right price, and if I can't do it I know someone who will. Eddie was always willing to pay what he thought the work was worth, and usually his brain could gauge just how much money specialized skills required.

Son of a bitch got me, and now I was strapped to was uncomfortable chair God only knew where. The blindfold was for some sort of pretense of secrecy, I guess, or his kinky colors showing through after all these years. I wasn't sure where he and his pack of robot lackies had taken me, but it was cold and damp. Noisy, too, but that was normal for Eddie. If there weren't some gears grinding or a computer making little tinny noises, it wouldn't be Eddie's base of operations.

The thing that worried me was the crackling of arc welder. It wasn't nearby, and I couldn't see the light of it or feel any heat, but I could hear it. He was working, not planning on turning this into the latest installment of the _Saw_ franchise in the immediate future. Didn't mean that it'd stay that way. He was keeping me alive for his latest plan to get Batman's attention, and that meant putting me in a death trap of some sort.

I hate death traps and I hate damseling. I especially hate them when the man designing them knows you well enough that he's got the exact measurements for your neck, wrists and ankles before you ever even get to the stage he sets.

"If you wanted a second shot with me, you should have asked." The silence was killing me. Eddie usually couldn't shut up, but he had been getting worse and worse over the years, living more in his crazy places then in the normal criminal sphere. The degeneration was almost sad, if you could muster a damn to give about the guy. I remember when he went off his meds back while he was still going to Pandora's, and that's when you could see him starting to fray at the edges. But we weren't shrinks or therapists, so tending to his psychological needs wasn't our job. We took care of other needs.

He didn't respond to the opening jibe. That wasn't normal. I wracked my mind for the latest noise from Gotham's less savory section for something to use, to get his attention. Word was Eddie had gone _into_ Arkham City of his own free will, having been out on his own recognizance when the walls went up, and rumor had it he'd come in after his regular partner in both crime and what passed as love among the worst of the rogues. He was a master of the bounce – an expert at working technicalities, he occasionally got himself a Get Out Of Jail free card. Sometimes he couldn't avoid a stay in the asylum, sometimes he could. This time he slipped into the city like it was nothing and became a problem for anyone else stuck inside.

Rumor has it he'd come explicitly for Batman, trying to drive him around the bend with puzzles and problems. But if you asked certain informants, he'd been there for one reason: keeping his partner in crime-and-something-like-romance Jonathan Crane, the master of terror, alive. I _knew_ Jon had a run in with Killer Croc that ended up badly, and Eddie had gone right after his partner without questioning the sanity of putting himself in Arkham City when he didn't have to be there.  

"I know I don't have your tongue, Eddie. If you're going to strap me to a chair, you could at _least_ establish some scene boundaries and maybe ask for a safe word." I heard something snap – a welding mask maybe? The arc welder stopped crackling.

Eddie had been weird about sex from day one. He found the fetish clubs by the time he turned twenty-one, and that's where he found what kept him going, but now he seemed allergic to living in his own skin. He used to be meticulously clean, really enjoyed being dapper. Now he was wearing spray-painted green flannel and filthy wife beaters. Who could even guess when he showered last. He'd fallen a long way from the fresh-faced young man drinking down all the possibility that a club like Pandora offered a man like him. At least that guy knew how to treat a woman -- not to mention, dress himself. 

"Are you trying to rush to your death?" Finally, he said something. There was some movement, things settling on tables or the floor.

He came closer now, but I didn't know just _how_ close. Was he in reach of my claws? Even if I could get my hands free, would I be able to hurt him badly enough to escape without his robots swarming me?

"I'm just making conversation, Eddie." I tried to keep my disdain out of my voice. Might get him better with honey instead of vinegar. He'd always been desperate for affection and validation, whether he was screaming about Batman from a loudspeaker or arranging scenes with potential partners. Didn't matter if he was in a stinky sewer or the luxury of Pandora's, Eddie just wanted to be the center of someone's attention. Maybe I could get him to want to be the center of mine. He'd been pretty pleased to be there, almost two decades ago.

"You're buying time, trying to find a weakness," Eddie told me. He wasn't wrong.

"What else am I supposed to do? I'm strapped to a chair, Eddie." Feign boredom over fear. Don't give him the satisfaction. Make him work for your emotional reaction, Selina. Dom him from your uncomfortable little chair.

"Stop calling me that," he snapped. "If you have to be familiar, use Mr. Nygma."

"Eddie, we are way more than familiar." You see a guy naked, you get to call him by his first name. You teach him the rope and the whip, you get to call him whatever you damn well please.

"Don't remind me!" Disgust colored his voice, and he stepped away. "Filthy mistake, that's all it is. I'm above all that."

"Rumor has it Harley could tell folks otherwise." Rumor nothing – girl had arrived at my apartment drunk, called up Pam, and cried about the mistakes she made 'dishonoring' Joker's memory. She'd gone to Eddie in grief and foolishness, looking for comfort and getting more than she bargained for. After getting caught and hauled to Arkham and a break out later, she went to Penguin. With Eddie, the sex was filling a need, a brief and drunken liaison. What she did to Ozzie, well... that was just weaponizing her body. I can't shame her for it. Not like I haven't used my assets to put men off their game.

"Just shut up!" Eddie had raised his voice, cracking with an emotion I couldn't read. "Don't be disgusting. I'm above such gross, base wants."

"Are you?" Going for the ego now.  He gets stupid when you dig in at the ego. "Or are you sad she traded _up_ to Oz once she got out of Arkham?"

"No! She's – it was a mistake. A grotesque mistake. She—she incapacitated me." If that's what he wanted to call "got me drunk and took advantage of my emotional damage," that's one way to rationalize it. Not that Harley was exactly in her right mind, either. Just rogues being awful to each other, business as usual.

"I don't know. A hot blonde used to be right up your alley, Eddie. Especially one with a penchant for leather straps." Harley was _right_ in his wheelhouse, since he had a distinct preference for blondes. When I was the hot young thing on the circuit, before I traded in my flogger for a bullwhip, I was sporting bleached hair and drew his attention immediately. I was hardly his only partner, but it was fun while it lasted, and he was willing to pay professional rates.

"How can you be so foul?" Eddie's voice was strangled now, like he was going to choke on something. His pride, maybe. 

"How can you tell a woman who had you begging on your knees that you don’t like what you like? There's no crime in having a libido." And if I could get it stirred up, maybe I could plant my high heel on his dick and get out of here with a minimum of fuss.

"I'm _better_ than that." He was pacing now, quick and stompy. I could hear the laces on his boots flop against his feet, rapid and rhythmic.

"There's nothing 'better' about denying yourself. That's shortsighted." I couldn't help but smirk. "So arrogant, thinking you're only in your head when you've got a perfectly good body."  

It was not a perfectly good body. Eddie had never been what you'd call a gym rat, but he jogged and he ate healthy when he was in the GCPD. He could take the rigors of anything I put him through. But when he'd called me in, ready to dupe me, he looked like he'd been dumpster diving to get his next meal. His cheeks were hollows, and his eyes had gone dark and sunken. He hadn't seen the sun in a while and was on his way to perfecting his Joker impression. At this point he seemed to be held together by duct tape and ego.

"If you're trying to appeal mto my ego, you're failing." I could hear the sneering. He was still so close. "I know precisely what is amazing about me, and it isn't this meat machine. My mind makes up for whatever my body may lack."

"Machines are meant to see use, Eddie." This wasn't getting me anywhere. If he could just get close enough, I might be able to find a key to these cuffs, or some other tool I could maybe use—or just rip him up a little. "Keep them tuned and running."

Suddenly his hands were on my arms.  He was too close now – I could feel his breath on my face, reeking of decay and hunger. The musty of scent of sweat came with him. He was so far gone, he couldn't even manage to take care of himself. He considered himself so mighty, but had no idea how far he'd fallen. But I couldn't afford to give him pity. Instead, I flexed my fingers, but nothing was there to catch on the tips of my claws. He was so close, but there was nothing I could do but talk.

"I know what you're trying to do," he said, so very softly. He'd talked like that when I gave him water and stroked his hair, so serious and wrung out by everything we did. Hearing it now made my heart run a little bit faster for the fear. "I want you to understand that I don't fault you for trying to save the last of your nine lives. But you attempting to tug at heartstrings over past liaisons simply isn't going to work, Selina."

My skin crawled under my suit. The way he said my name, so casually dismissive of everything I'd  said, left me cold. He'd made me a person with a name, but he'd also made clear that the person didn't matter.  That person was meat waiting for a grinder. I was in real trouble.

"The only use I have for you is as bait," he went on, bringing his hands up to cup my cheeks. I wasn't used to being on this side of the cuffs and collar, and it made my pulse hammer. He was so close, breath sickly sweet on my face. Nothing about this was right. Nothing about _him_ was right. "Your purpose isn't titillation, it's humiliation. You think you can play both sides of us, but we all know who has his fingers in your collar these days."

"Jealous it's me and not you?" The jab got a hit and he was away from me in an instant, hands yanked away like I'd suddenly become a cat of lava.  Ego it was, then. Go for the ego, get him stupid. Make him make a mistake, Selina! C'mon, dammit! "Or worried we laugh at you over a warm pillow? I mean, who wouldn't laugh at you, Eddie?" 

"Shut your mouth." His voice quavered. It'd hit a nerve – everybody knew that Eddie's obsession with putting the Bat under his boot went further than just ego. He'd admired him, once. Idolized him, maybe.  That's a potent mix of feelings from a spurned young man who turned into a bitter lunatic. They probably got all muddled up in that head of his. Eddie wasn't just bent, he was crooked in a way I didn't think anyone could come back from.

"I'm going to enjoy watching you lose your mind when he can't save you," he said, voice held low and taut. He was pacing again, a tabby realizing he's no tiger. Mockery was a sure way to really get him going. "Not that you have much to lose."

"You know he'll defeat anything you throw up against him." I knew that he would, without question. He hadn't failed before this, he wouldn't fail now. That was the definition of insanity, wasn't it? Eddie trying the same thing over and over again and expecting to get different results eventually. Batman won, every time. Batman would  _always_ win.

I just didn't want to have to wait for him to get around to it. A girl wants to get things done on her own time.

"You go ahead and bank on that. I have work to do that'll ensure he _won't_." His voice grew more and more distant, until I was sure I was alone. I'd gotten him to flounce but I hadn't gotten out of this trap yet. I was just going to have to put my faith in Batman to work. He'd come for me, we'd get out of this mess, and then we'd kick Eddie's ass together. For now, I'd have to be satisfied knowing I'd at least wounded his ego, if nothing more.

When Batman got me out of this? I was going to do  _so_ much worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is another Fanbruary piece, for [koresart](http://koresart.co.vu/) over on tumblr! They put up this [amazing Riddlecat piece](http://koresart.co.vu/post/170771846763/yall-be-sleeping-on-this-ship-bonus), and of course I had to run off with it in a probably unintended direction! But damn if the idea of Eddie and Selina aren't delicious.
> 
> Also, this marks the first Citizen's story from someone else's point of view.


End file.
